


Infuriating Bastard

by sheafrotherdon



Series: Nantucket AU [74]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-21
Updated: 2007-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's December 23rd and John tells Rodney that one of his Christmas gifts is hidden in the house.  Madness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infuriating Bastard

John's already gone when Rodney wakes up – off to fly a party of over-privileged rich folks from island to Boston to island to Connecticut. It's December 23rd and he won't be home until late the next evening, handsomely paid for the inconvenience and brimming with satisfaction at having wrangled the elements and won. Rodney finds the prospect of John's grin cold comfort when there's light snow drifting past their bedroom window and the sheets beside him are chilled. He turns over, burrowing deeper beneath their thick comforter, and only sticks his nose back out into the cold morning air when he hears the crinkle of paper at his side.

> I hid one of your presents somewhere in the house. Bet you can't find it. – John

  
*****

Rodney has no idea how John came to the conclusion that he's a simpleton, but there's surely no other explanation for the assumption that he can't find a present hidden _in his own house_. It's laughable to believe otherwise – so laughable that he doesn't even start his search the moment he gets out of bed: he showers, dithers over which of John's hooded sweatshirts to steal, lets Cash out, makes a large pot of coffee, glances over the news online, and even considers doing a little work before he crushes John's feeble attempts at ninja stealth. "Oh, Sheppard," he mumbles, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders, warming up for the task. "So pretty. So in over your head."

What's left of the morning passes quickly, and he's not particularly concerned that the gift hasn't been found before he stops for lunch. By mid-afternoon and another pot of coffee, he's a little put out that John isn't as clueless as he thought, but he's found a scrap of blue paper with snowflakes all over it in the spare room trash basket, and he feels confident he's closing in. He meets Cash on the upstairs landing, offers him the paper to sniff and says, "Find it, boy, find it!" Cash trots into their bedroom and wriggles under the bed, hindquarters hanging out and tail wagging madly as he snuffles beneath the box spring, finally inching his way out with a dusty toy pig in his mouth. "You suck," Rodney tells him as Cash eyes him hopefully, and then spends half an hour playing tug-o-war.

By dinner time – "a late dinner, thank you _very_ much, John Sheppard," Rodney tells the can of tuna he's opening – he's dirty, sweaty, has a cut on his forehead from turning around too quickly and running into the bathroom door, and he still hasn't found his present. He eats the tuna right out of the can, staring glumly at the refrigerator and thinking of all the ways he's going to make John pay for being gone this close to Christmas _and_ hiding a present instead of just giving him one – lots of coffee and back rubs and sex would be ideal, and not too much to ask in the grand scheme of hot boyfriends and rich people who want to fly to places despite wind shears and seagulls and cliffs and rocks.

He sends John an email:

> You're a liar. A big fat liar. There is no present in this house and that's just mean. I'm totally sleeping in the middle of the bed right now. As soon as I'm done with this email. P.S. Cash likes me better because I don't lie. Also I helped him find pig. You probably hid that too. What kind of man hides a squeaky pig from his own dog?

  
There's a return email waiting for him the next morning:

> Cash hides all his favorite toys under our bed. I think he thinks it's safe or something. Last time I looked, your green argyle sock was under there (no toes anymore), three large sticks, two medium ones, and a monkey (toy, not real). P.S. I've lived in that house longer than you have. I know all the secret places. You're just not trying.

  
Rodney makes a face at the computer screen. "I see how it is," he grits out and goes to find his sturdy boots, his warm coat, and his Scarf of Varying Widths (knitted by Jeannie in 1987 and seemingly impossible to lose). He pulls on one of John's beanie hats, yanking it savagely down over his (not at all freakishly pointed) ears, and scrabbles about in the garage among John's tools for a retractable tape measure, a scrap of paper, and a pencil stub. "Secret places," he huffs, stomping outside, and promptly begins to measure the house.

Armed with a ladder, some killer trigonometry, the internal measurements of their tilting home, and an algorithm he writes over lunch (thawing out over grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup), Rodney calculates exactly where all the hidden hidey-holes in the house could be. The glow of being smarter than John is balm to his soul – makes him forget that he almost fell into the rhododendron bushes, that he can't feel the little finger on his right hand, and that he ripped his jeans at the knee, making him look like some '90s grunge band wannabe (or, well, John). He looks at Cash, who's watching his sandwich crusts intently. "We'll triumph," he tells him seriously before he feeds him the rest of his sandwich and scritches his rump.

Hammer in hand, Rodney pries wainscoting from the wall in the kitchen, lifts treads on the stairs and floorboards in the hallway, taps the wall in the spare room for hastily finished plasterwork, and generally finds as many ways to mash cobwebs into his hair as possible. He's unsuccessful at every turn, algorithm be damned, and by the time John comes home he's flopped across their bed, face down, Cash sprawled half over his back, chewing on squeaky pig.

"Hey," John says from the doorway. He sounds amused.

"Meeeeeeeeeep," says the pig.

"Pants on fire," says Rodney feebly.

John crosses over to the bed and crouches down beside it. "Didn't find your present, huh?"

He sounds far too smug and smells much too good for Rodney's well-being. "There _is_ no present," he sulks.

"Course there is."

"I _looked_."

"In your desk drawer?" John asks.

"Of course I . . . " Rodney lifts his head, thinking the question over. "Only – maybe I . . . "

"Or did you get all caught up in thinking of all the places it could be – _so_ caught up that you didn't do any work for the past two days, so had no reason to go looking for . . . "

Rodney gapes at him. "Oh! Oh, that is . . ."

John grins.

"You are an underhanded – "

"Meeeeeeeeeeeep," pig offers.

"I can't believe you'd just . . ."

"Rodney?"

Rodney pushes himself up on one elbow. "Seriously, that is a low-down . . . "

"Rodney."

"When you _knew_ that I'd – "

"Rodney," John says again. "It's still down there."

Rodney pauses for a second, and then he's up and clattering downstairs, admiring his own agility and musing that he could probably break land-speed records if there were a prize at the end – blow jobs or donuts or presents or a Nobel Prize.

The present's in his desk drawer, just as John said – a box wrapped in blue paper with snowflakes all over it (no bow, too much tape). Rodney rips at the paper, uses his teeth when he has to, and before John can make it to the bottom of the stairs Rodney's stumbling out into the living room with ten hockey tickets in his hand. "Five games?" he asks weakly. "Five games – five . . . how will we . . ."

"I'll fly us," John grins, beaming and rocking up onto his toes with pride.

Rodney looks at the tickets, vaguely processing that these are good seats and it's likely his boyfriend is in the _mafia_ to have scored them – when suddenly it hits him: that's his boyfriend standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets, laugh lines crinkling up beside his eyes, and wow, that's his _boyfriend_. "Thank you," he says warmly and crosses over to where John's standing so that he can wallop him up the back of the head.

" _Hey_ ," John says, rubbing his skull but not entirely managing to hide his amusement.

"You _hid a present from me. For two days_!" Rodney splutters. He smacks his arm. "I can't believe you'd do that!"

"It was awesome," John grins, hooting when Rodney goes for his ribs, tickling him so that he's off-balance and tumbling him to the floor. "You don't play fair!" he yells, laughing as Rodney continues to attack.

"Yeah? Yeah – well – _you're a big sneak_ ," Rodney says as John sticks his cold hands up the back of his shirt. "GAH."

Which is all the intelligible conversation that happens for a while, what with the rolling, squabbling, hair-yanking, and tickling that Rodney inflicts (and has inflicted upon him), a general melee that Cash seems to enjoy, running back and forth between their heads and feet, woofing his pleasure and generally getting in the way.

"Do you give up?" Rodney asks at last, straddling John, pinning his hands to the floor.

John rolls his hips and smiles. "Nah," he offers.

"Infuriating . . ." Rodney manages, but he can't help himself any longer – he's warm and messy and John's home and sprawled beneath him and he has hockey tickets and there are more presents tomorrow and tonight he doesn't have to sleep with pig. ". . . bastard," he manages before he leans in and kisses John softly, stealing all the fight right out of him with the slow glide and pull of his lips.

"S'me," John says a little unsteadily when the kiss breaks, threading the fingers of one hand through Rodney's hair. "Infuriating bastard."

Rodney sighs, smiling at him. "What am I going to do with you?"

Cash flops down on the floor beside them and starts chewing on pig.

"Meee-eeeee-eeeeep," pig offers.

"Excellent plan," says Rodney, and fits his mouth to John's again.


End file.
